


forbidden fruit's in season

by kingsnow (bravegentlestrong)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But it's actually real and they're fooling nobody but themselves, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, Porn With Plot, Producing An Heir And Accidentally Producing Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-11-03 03:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravegentlestrong/pseuds/kingsnow
Summary: Jon and Sansa get married. For political reasons. And heir producing purposes. They only have sex this much for the good of the realm. There is a 0% chance they're secretly in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled "Newsflash, asshole! I've been in love with you this entire goddamn time!"
> 
> There is a podfic available! See the end for related works :)

“I’ve thought about your solution to the problem of your parentage. You can't just declare me Queen, it won’t suddenly mollify their hatred of me,” Sansa says naught six hours after he’d told her the truth and said he would proclaim her Queen.

“They don’t hate you!”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Well, they certainly don’t trust me.”

Lyanna Mormont hadn’t been the only one of his bannermen who'd called Sansa a Lannister. To them, his sister being held captive and publicly beaten somehow proved she had mixed loyalties. He hated that they punished her for surviving. But they weren’t completely wrong. The Lannisters could make a claim that Sansa was still married to Tyrion and try to take the North. They seemed to think the same thing was possible from the Targaryens, what with Daenerys' proposal on top of everything else.

Jon sighs. “They’re already rejecting me. And we need to stand together if we –“

“I have another solution,” Sansa says, the slight waiver in her voice is the only thing that betrays any hint of nervousness. With her back straight and her face composed she continues, “the two of us could get married, and unite our claims.”

His mouth is suddenly dry. He tries to speak, but words do not come.

“They like you. But you’re a Targaryen. They don’t trust me. But I’m a Stark. It makes sense.”

This is the first time he as heard her call him a Targaryen and he doesn’t like the way it sounds.

“I see,” Jon says.

Sansa reaches across his desk and puts her hand on his arm. He glances down at this now commonplace show of affection, and when he looks back into her eyes she has the smallest of smiles on her face.

“I understand you’ll always view me as a sister, and that consummating the marriage will be difficult for you, but you and I are creatures of duty. We’ll do what’s right.”

Jon gulps.

She’s wrong. As soon as she says ‘consummating’ the blood drains from his brain. He’s thought about it before, too often, really, but to have seen her lips form the words… it’s all a little too much.

“We should discuss this further, I think,” he says, “I don’t want to be rash. I promised you that you wouldn't have to marry anyone you didn't choose. Not again.” Let alone your own brother, he doesn’t add.

Sansa’s brow furrows. “I am choosing. I’m… the one proposing the marriage.”

“You’re proposing to me?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Sansa asks, her nervousness more apparent now in a small laugh. 

It was. It was just too surreal. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating. He wanted her. The building desire had become a problem as soon as he realized what it was, and that had been months ago. This should be a solution. And yet… it wouldn’t be real, would it? He had imagined her pressing her lips to his neck and whispering base confessions of desire, not of diplomacy or doing the right thing.

But she was right. It didn't matter. He would do his duty. And he would enjoy it, sick as that was.

“Then I accept,” Jon says, forcing himself to meet her eye and smile gently. She had no idea what she was getting herself into, of the thoughts he hadn’t managed to will away. That he hadn't really minded that she was his sister, really, back when he thought they shared a father. That the wrongness of it had made him come harder when he'd taken himself in hand to relieve the tension. 

Sansa’s shoulders relax, and she smiles back at him as though he is her personal saviour, and gods, he still isn't used to that. Her hand is still on his arm, and she gives it a squeeze, “our heir will be a way to start fresh. A new beginning.”

_Our heir._

The thought of it makes him want to push aside the papers and his battle plans and pull her onto his desk right then. Instead he pulled his arm away and stood up, turning around to look out the window. She couldn't know. She would hate him for it. “If it’s an heir you want we should marry soon. I’ll need to go north soon, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.” _If I'll be back_ , he thinks. He tries to convince himself that’s why his body has responded like this. He wants to leave something behind in this world.

“I agree,” Sansa says, “we just need to call our bannermen. It shouldn’t take long. It will have to be a modest feast. But it will raise everyone’s spirits.”

“You and Baelish can arrange it?” Jon asks, shutting his eyes.

Sansa rises from her chair and stands at his side. He turns to look at her, and she brings a hand to his chest. “If you make them think you love me, maybe they’ll love me too,” she says, and he leans over and catches her lips in the gentlest of kisses. To show her that he could do just that. But it only lasts a moment before she pulls away.

“You’re a better actor than I thought, but maybe a little more passion on the day.”

That triggers something in him. He’s not sure if it’s his pride that’s injured or if he just wants to get under her skin the way she's gotten under his. He catches her wrist in his hand as she turns to leave.

“Come here,” he says, his voice gruff with desperation, and she turns back, curiosity in her eyes. “Kiss me again,” he says, this time a little more delicately. She nods and he ropes a hand through her hair and pulls her close to him. His mouth takes possession of hers. She’s slack in his arms. The tip of his tongue runs across the roof of her mouth -- 

She pulls away again. "Better," she says, and there's something that looks a lot like fear in her eyes. He steps back. He's never felt so guilty.

"I suppose I ought to get back to this," he says, gesturing at his desk vaguely.

She nods, all emotion gone from her face yet again. "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry," she says, and with that she is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Though by this point Jon is well aware of Sansa’s competency at pretty much everything, even he is surprised at how quickly the wedding comes together. Barely a fortnight passes and, just like that, he’s a married man. She is so beautiful, clad in the lightest of grey. When she looks at him he sees love written across her face, and he’s half a fool because he half believes it.

 

Despite their hurried practiced kisses in his solar that night, and the half-dozen times she had suggested practicing since, he is nervous. And yet, it is easy to take her face in his hands and kiss her in front of the heart tree and his bannermen. And it’s easy to dance with her at the feast, despite the fact that even after her diligent instruction he still can’t quite remember the order of the steps. The crowd laughs at him cheerfully, but as the night goes on their stares become more and more pointed. Predatory, almost.

 

Jon hadn’t really thought about the bedding ceremony. Having been at the wall, and a bastard before that, he hadn’t attended many weddings. Of course, years ago Greyjoy had talked of beddings with nostalgic eyes, but it had slipped his mind entirely. He’d been more concerned with his own fantasies about bedding his new bride. In all of them he’d imagined ridding her of her clothes with a delicate touch. She had been through far too much to have to endure being defiled by his men.  

 

The chair creaks as he stands up abruptly at the head table. Jon clears his throat and the merriment comes to a halt as the crowd all looks up at their King.

 

“There will be no bedding,” Jon says, triumphantly, if a little tipsy.

 

There is a groan from the crowd – even, to his surprise, from the women.

 

Jon swallows, but almost as soon as he’s said it, Sansa rises beside him and wraps an arm around him. She laughs, one of her forced laughs he’s grown used to after spending so much time with her in Baelish’s company.

 

“He’s just kidding,” she says, and she kisses him on the cheek in a mimicry of wifely affection. With her lips an inch from his ear, she whispers, “let them have their fun.”

 

When she pulls away from him, she calls out to the crowd, “I think I fancy one more dance, though.”

 

Several men call out to vie for the honor of his sister’s company but he can’t stomach the idea of any man laying a hand on his sister, even if it is just a dance. “So do I,” he says, and when she turns her face from the crowd she rolls her eyes at him but he takes her hand anyway.

 

The song is slow and people dance close, without any real steps. Everything has gotten sloppier as the night progressed. Dancing like this wasn’t so bad, really, if he was drunk and got to feel her body pressed against his.

 

It’s over all too quickly. As the music comes to an end, the room encloses onto them with so-called well-wishers ridding them of clothes. He tries to smile and make the best of it, but he feels suddenly weak as they carry Sansa off and he has no means to protect her. He hadn’t wanted her to come to his bed traumatized. He'd wanted her to be wet and desperate before he'd begun untying her dress.

 

She is already sitting on their father’s bed when he’s pushed into the Lord’s chambers. She is wearing only a thin shift. It's been torn and falls off one of her thin shoulders.

 

The door slams shut and the ruckus continues outside, but they are alone.

 

He’s been thinking about this moment since she’d kissed him that first time, hell, he's been thinking about this for months before that. And yet it’s never gone quite like this in his head. He’s not sure what to do. Through her shift he can see the faintest outline of hard nipples. When his eyes flicker back to her face she’s pressed her lips together and pats the mattress beside her.

 

He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and sits beside her.

 

“What happened to your dress?” he asks.

 

She shrugs. “On the floor somewhere, I suppose. Along with your shirt and shoes. It's probably ruined.”

 

“That’s a shame. I liked it. How long did it take to make?”

 

“Can we discuss this later?” Sansa says, and it's more a command than anything else. She she reaches a tentative hand out and places it on his chest, much like she had done in his solar that first time she’d kissed him. Her warm hand feels so much better on his bare skin in this cold room than it did through so many layers of fabric. The pads of her fingers are soft and they trace the outline of his pectorals and the softness of it makes him want something harder. He takes her breast in his hand and rubs a thumb over her nipple through the white linen. She gasps and he needs to be closer to her. He wants to feel her moan against him. He leans in to kiss her neck and uses his other arm to bring her closer.

 

He wants to be skin to skin but wouldn't dare remove her shift – he’ll give her that much dignity, at least. “I just didn’t like seeing all of _those men_ touching you like that”

 

“Well you’re here to protect me now,” she says, and though her voice is even Jon has to stifle a moan. It’s weird how that gets to him. She doesn’t really need anyone to protect her, she's proven herself lethal and heroic enough, but he would go to the ends of the earth anyway. He pushes her down into the mattress.

 

Jon falls to the floor between her knees, pushing her legs apart and kissing the inside of her knees and up her thigh. He wants to feel her come in his mouth, to hear her whimper and then call out his name, but she is not pliant. She sits up and crosses her arms.  

 

“Are you… is this your… first time?”

 

“No,” he says, pulling his mouth away from her thigh to look up at her, “why would you think that?”

 

“This isn’t how you make a babe.”

 

“Aye,” he grumbled from between her legs. Did she think him simple? He stood up, “that wasn’t the point.”

 

“What was the point, then?” she asks, crinkling her forehead.

 

He sees the genuine confusion in her eyes. He makes to answer – but his thoughts are all jumbled up, “the point? The point is to – oh nevermind, forget about it.” His desire is evident in his voice, low and wanting, desperate for something she can’t give him. He sits on the mattress again beside her.

 

He kisses her like he owns her, sucking on her bottom lip with his teeth pressed into her soft flesh. He pushes her back onto the mattress again and lets himself fall on top of her. He steadies himself on an elbow and moves his other hand between her legs. He slides a finger against her folds before pushing two fingers inside her. It’s easy, for she is already abundantly wet. His fingers curl inside her and when he presses hard against her softest flesh he is not the sweet and caring lover he promised himself he’d be.

 

He’s angry and he hates himself for it. It’s his fault for thinking this would be anything other than procreation for her.

 

She makes a little moan against his neck, her teeth sinking into his skin. He steadies his hand. He couldn’t take this out on her. What sort of man had he become? But she whispers, “don’t stop” and then she inhales like the words escaped the deepest part of her mind that she kept only to herself and she’s caught it too late. He can’t help but moan into her soft hair.

 

“Do you need help with your breeches?” she asks, and when he pulls away from their embrace and looks at her with hazy eyes she turns her head away. “The laces, I mean?”

 

The swarm of “well-wishers” had already taken care of that, but he understands the point. This isn’t enjoyable for her. She just wants him to get on with it. It hits him like a punch to the gut, because he could spend hours lingering over her soft skin.

 

“It’s alright,” he says as he moves to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. He feels her eyes on him, and if he didn’t know better he’d think they were hungry. But it’s not desire in her eyes. This isn’t like that for her. He’s just fooling himself.

 

He lays on top of her again, and she hooks her legs around him. She presses herself into him, and for the first time they truly  look each other in the eye. He wants to kiss the nape of her neck again, but he can’t look away. He presses his hips back down and she bites down on her lip and closes her eyes. His breath catches in his throat. He swears he’s never seen a more beautiful sight. _My wife_ , he thinks, and he can’t hold back from kissing her a moment longer. She reaches for his hand and their fingers intertwine.

 

Her mouth is pliant and wet, and her kisses are sloppy. He reaches his hand back between her legs and rubs his knuckles against her nub before using his fingers to slide his cock into her cunt. He wants to be a good lover, but he doesn’t know how long he can last, what with her ragged breath and the gasp she makes against his lips when he enters her.

 

He tries to go slow, with soft and steady thrusts and a finger on her clit. But she clamps down on him and she’s suddenly so tight, and her eyes have rolled back into her head and it’s all just too much. He tries to think of something else, but she digs her nails into his back and brings him back to the present and locks him in the here and now with her. His hips move involuntary as hers buck into his.

 

 _“Jon.”_ She moans his name and he can’t help but thrust into her forcefully. She wraps her hands around his neck and pulls him to her, trapping his top lip between her teeth. Her moans are even better against his mouth. He wants to suck more out of her. 

 

He comes inside her and she whimpers. She wraps her legs around him even tighter, as though refusing to let him go. He finishes her off with his fingers and she comes with a sudden shudder underneath him.

 

He tries to roll off her but she stops him.

 

“I don’t want your seed to spill,” she says, and he remembers why they were doing this in the first place.

 

Afterwards, she rests her head on his chest and pulls the furs over their naked bodies. She falls asleep easily, but he can’t. He must already be asleep; he must be dreaming. He doesn’t want to miss a second of this. He wants to commit the feel of her against him, safe and sound, to memory. This won’t last forever. He loves her, this he’s known for a while. Still, things are different now. He’ll recall this later – her red hair loose and wild, the way she smelled like sex and lavender and the easy intimacy of her hand resting on his hipbone like it was the most natural thing in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing it took me this long to make it goofy.

 

Sansa had never been foolish enough to forget Jon’s devotion had not been to her but to their father. That they had been bound by blood was the only thing that kept Jon at her side. She was not Arya, the sister he loved, or Robb, who had been a true brother to him. If Jon had ever cared for her, it had been out of duty alone. When he had told her the truth and his plans, she had thought back to Cersei's advice – that her best weapon was between her legs.  Perhaps that was true. After all, now he was bound to her for a lifetime. But though she'd tried her best to look comely, when he'd kissed her that very first time she knew she had been the one who’d been trapped.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa wakes before dawn, but she doesn't need the morning light to remind her where she is. Her head is nestled into the crook of Jon's arm. She's shared a bed before, but this is different. She can feel his bare skin against her, rough with scars from battle and death, and it is more comforting than anything she's ever experienced. Lying beside him is so pleasant that she almost wishes her shift had been discarded along with the rest of her clothes.

 

Sansa looks up at Jon and smiles. She runs her fingers through his hair.

 

He wakes up with a drowsy, “Sansa?”

 

Her fingers catch on the knots in his hair. “Your hair is a mess.”

 

“So is yours,” he whispers, “you should see yourself.”

 

“It’s all your fault.”

 

He smiles and she can’t help but smile back. It’s not for anyone else this time, just him. Every time she looked at him brought her back to a time before the world had beaten the hope out of her. She’d thought it would be harder, but she knew that he wouldn’t hurt her. This was starting over, washing away what had come before. She could begin again, couldn’t she?

 

It certainly felt like it. She feels safe nestled against him. He would never leave her. Not now that she’d been wedded and bedded.

 

“Should we get breakfast?” Jon asks, and Sansa shakes her head no.

 

She planned on making it as pleasant as possible for him. She would be a true wife, steadfast and hospitable, and a worthy queen, as she was always meant to be. She wouldn't give him the opportunity to question his choice. She would be kind and dutiful.

 

But it wasn’t duty or kindness that made her hand wander over the taut skin of his abdomen, nor was it obligation that sent a shiver down her spine when she found him already hard. She thought again of being underneath him, his hands between their bodies making her bite down hard on her lip to keep from calling out his name.

 

“Perhaps we should try again? Before we eat?”

 

Jon nods and leans in to kiss her. She closes her eyes and sighs.  His hand grasps between her legs, running a finger against her cunt as she runs her tongue against his. She’s still wet from last night. Suddenly she feels ashamed. She shouldn’t enjoy this, and yet she throbs with want. Whatever was between them, it wasn’t romance, and she can’t help but be surprised his touches are so sweet, almost as though he was the one seducing her. 

 

“You don’t have to do that,” she protests.

 

“I don’t want you to feel like a brood mare.”

 

She averts her eyes. “Have I made you feel like some kind of stud horse?”

 

“I don’t mind,” he says, and when she looks at him she sees lust in his eyes. She is warm in their bed beneath furs and his body but it sends a shiver down her spine anyway.

 

“Alright. Proceed,” she whispers.

 

He kisses her neck again and it’s so terribly lovely. And it makes it easier to avert his gaze as his fingers push inside her and she lets out an involuntary moan. She can feel her cheeks burn. He sucks at her neck harder, with more teeth in admonishment.

 

There had been times where she’d been _so_ flustered, lying awake at night with something pent up inside her after one of their disagreements. This was what it was. And he didn’t seem to mind relieving it. Perhaps this is what husbands were for, a particular duty her Lady Mother had failed to mention.

 

He pushes a finger inside her, and she bites down on her lip to stifle a gasp. The palm of her hand pushes down on her cunt and the sudden pressure quickens her breathing.

 

She feels like she needs to be doing something with her hands, which are just lying there. She takes his cock in hand before realizing she’s not sure what she should be doing with it. She jerks her head away. A flash of bewilderment passes on his face. “I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

 

He opens his mouth and closes it just as fast.

 

“What should I be doing with my hands?” she asks again, because he’s not kissing her neck anymore, he’s just _staring_ at her with an expression she doesn’t understand.

 

“What do you want to do with your hands?” he finally asks.

 

She doesn’t know what to say. People really shouldn’t speak in the bedroom. “I want to… help you?” she manages to stutter out.

 

“Oh,” Jon says, like he gets it. But he moves himself over her and uses his hands to enter her instead. And while this was perfectly lovely, more than lovely, it was _not_ what she wanted! She’d wanted to affect him the way he so easily seemed to affect her. But she couldn’t complain, not when he makes her head spin and whispers her name into her ear like it’s a prayer.

 

* * *

 

At breakfast, Brienne pushes her eyebrows together. “What’s that on your neck?” she asks, pushing Sansa’s hair off of her shoulder to get a closer look.

 

Across the table, Tormund laughs. “I see you didn’t mind his small pecker.”

 

“That’s my wife,” Jon warns with a reproachful look, and Sansa has to try hard not to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ps. "that's my wife" reference for those who don't know john mulaney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhbaAFl3rXg)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys really wanted a handjob, and sex education... so... here you go ;)

In the four days since he’d been wed, Jon had laid with his wife nearly a dozen times. He hated to say they came together like clockwork, for though Sansa had got them onto a routine, when she came to him she stirred a passion that he struggled to keep locked away. When he ran a hand down the curve of her leg dark parts of him yearned to push beyond the boundaries she’d set, to commit every inch of her to memory before he left home once more. 

Not an hour before dinner his wife comes to him with a furrowed brow and her needlework in hand. “Jon,” she calls into the training yard, “may I have a word?” 

“Of course.” 

“Somewhere more private?” 

Jon nods at Podrick and re-sheaths Longclaw at his side. 

As they walk into the keep he can’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders. Her back is as straight as ever, and her head is almost always held high, but he sees it in her rigid gait and measured breathing. He knows what it’s like now to relieve her stress, to feel her body go slack underneath him. 

When the reach his solar, Sansa turns to him. 

She is the picture of her mother, with that same unyielding stare and the same blue eyes. But there is a vulnerability beneath it, something changed when he took her into his bed. These small smiles belong to him alone now. She is his to protect and his to love. Wonderstruck by her beauty, he does not suspect the words that come out of her mouth: 

“On our wedding night, you said you weren’t a virgin.” 

Sansa’s tone is unnaturally even for discussing such matters. He doesn’t know if this is just who his dreamy little sister has become or if she had rehearsed her words. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“And have you laid with many women?” 

“Just one. Two now.” 

Sansa nods. She does not ask who the woman was or if Jon had loved her. In truth, he would not know how to answer – the question had tormented him since he’d left her. 

“You and this woman…” only now does Sansa’s voice falter, “she… taught you things?” 

Jon nods. 

“Well, I would like to learn.” 

Oh gods, how he wants her. Now, against his desk, before the feast. He could show her things. But she didn’t know what she was asking. Jon looked down at the floor and hoped his cheeks weren’t flushed red. 

Sansa took a step forward, “I’d like to please you.” 

“You do please me.” 

“In other ways,” she said, cocking her head to the side. He loves her best like this, pushing up against the resistance it pains him to give. Wanting things, wanting him. She gets closer still, running her hand up against his chest. 

“What do you want to learn, then?” he asks, looking down into her eyes. 

“Everything. Anything.” 

He must still be a crow, asleep and dreaming, because this is surely not real. His wife may respond eagerly in bed, but she did not drag him into his solar for afternoon romps.

“What you wanted to do at first, with your mouth… or what you do with your hands to me… I want to do that to you.”

He should be weary. He should turn away, he should remember that she is just a wife trying to do her duty and please her husband. He shouldn’t itch to see on her knees. But she’s playing with her sleeve, and looking at him through fluttering eyelashes, and he swallows down any reservations.

“Okay,” he says, reaching over and looping a strand of her red hair around his finger.

He looks down at her lips and leans over to kiss her. She meets him halfway, her lips eager. They’re getting good at this. She lets out a small sigh against his mouth, and the thought that she’s affected by the way his tongue moves against hers sends a shiver down his spine. She leans into him, her breasts push against his chest. 

It’s moments like these he thinks she could love him too, she’s nibbling at his bottom lip, pushing for more. Hungry. Despite the fact that her legs had been wrapped around him pulling him closer that morning. Despite the fact that he fully intended to have her in his bed after dinner.

As he breathes her in, her hands come between them and work to untie his breeches. He’s already hard and he lets out an eager breath when she runs her hand against him through his smallclothes.

Sansa pulls away from his kiss, and when he opens his eyes she’s looking down at his cock in fascination, her hands on him. She bites down on her bottom lip, and he wants to kiss her again, but he doesn’t want her to stop either. She gives him a small squeeze and then looks back up at him. They were bedroom eyes. This wasn’t his sweet wife. This was another woman entirely. The woman of his darkest, dirtiest fantasies in the body of his sweet sister.

She looks up at him with some trepidation, and brushes the head of his cock with her thumb. It sends a shiver down his spine. 

“What should I do?” she asks.

“Whatever you want.”

The thought of her wanting to do anything to him, to run her hands over him, to interrupt both of their days because she just can’t wait… gods, that’s almost enough to make him come itself.

Her hands are gentle enough to drive him to madness. His belly is tight with lust and he’s almost whimpering with the agony of it all. He can’t verbalize it, he can’t say the words, things aren’t like that between the pair of them. They don’t talk about anything that transpires in the bedroom. But she’s looking down at his cock as though it’s the centre of the universe and, well, she did say she wanted him to teach her.

He brings his hand on top of hers and tightens it against his cock. She looks up at him and he whispers, “I’ll show you.” 

She nods, and whispers back, “okay.”

He moves their hands back and forth together. 

After a moment, she pulls her hand away, and he thinks he’s pushed her too far. But then she throws him a sideways glance. “Can I watch you?” she asks, and when he doesn’t answer right away adds, “I’d like to watch, I think. To see what you to do yourself. What you like.”

Jon nods and begins to move his hands. He doesn’t do it the way he usually does, when alone. It’s slower now, more deliberate. 

She sits back against his desk, her head bowed in concentration. He’s still half-embarrassed, but his blood is hot and so he forgets about it. He’s compelled to keep going by the fixation in her eyes. 

After a few minutes, Sansa opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it just as quickly, looking down at the ground.

Jon stops, feeling his cheeks burn. He should have never let this get so far. “We can stop,” he says, wincing. 

“No!” she says, a little too loud. “I was going to ask…” She looks him dead in the eye, “what I should be doing with my mouth.”

His lips part and he exhales a breath of relief. “Oh, well…” 

How does he explain this? Her eyes are fixed on him so intently now. “Licking it? Putting your mouth around it and… sucking?” he asks, as though he’s not sure. 

But Sansa doesn’t seem to notice his embarrassment. She nods at him as though he’s an expert teacher and gets down on her knees. Her hands are on him again, stroking him before she guides his cock into her mouth.

“No teeth,” he remembers suddenly, just as her mouth wraps around his cock.

Her mouth is clumsy, but he’s already so aroused it doesn’t matter. The visual of her on her knees, the thought of fucking her mouth, is more than enough to speed him along. He’d never thought this would happen, not even after he’d married her, not even after the amount of times he’d lain with her, not even after her enthusiastic response in bed. 

It doesn’t take long before he spills his seed in her mouth. It takes him by surprise, and as she stands up it leaks out of the side of her mouth. He immediately grabs his handkerchief from his pocket, and wipes it off. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not warning you.”

“Oh,” she laughs, and looks down at the floor. “That’s quite alright.”

He wraps his hands around her slender waist and lifts her back onto his desk. He kisses her forehead gently before pulling up her skirts. “Your turn,” he says, moving to his own knees.

“We can’t!” she protests, and then in a more diplomatic tone, “we don’t have time for that now. My hair looks nice, and you always muss it up. We don’t want anyone to know what we did.”

Her hair did look pretty, half of it twirled away from her face. He was always running his hands through it. She did the same thing, liking his hair loose so she could pull on it as she came. 

“What if I did want them to know?” he asks, not thinking clearly, imagining his face between her thighs, finally getting a taste of her. 

“Jon!” Sansa cries out, her cheeks flushing.

Maybe he’s crossed a line, but she pushes her lips together into a small smile. 

“After dinner,” she says, catching his eye. The two of them exchange a smirk that lasts only a minute, before Sansa turns away. “Now, we must go. We have a duty to our people.”

She walks away with a new bounce in her step, and Jon thinks back on how much Sansa has smiled since the wedding. And he realizes, with a start, that he did that. He puffs out his chest in pride. He was responsible for Sansa Stark’s sexual awakening. In this moment, he thinks that might be his most impressive achievement.


	5. Chapter 5

As she walks to dinner, Sansa knows she must look foolish. But she doesn’t know how to hold all of this soft hearted joy in, so she lets herself smile and fiddle with her hair. 

 

What had just transpired in Jon’s solar was unexpected and she feels at once wicked and powerful. The look on Jon’s face, shuddering as he came into her mouth, stirred her blood in a way she hadn’t realized was possible with her clothes on. 

 

She’d thought that finally getting to touch him like that would relieve the tension that had been building in her all day, but it had the exact opposite effect. It is improper, she knows, as the eyes of the castle are upon her, to long for Jon’s hands. They had no time for it, she knew, and she would have him in bed before long, but she couldn’t help but think of of how he could always clear her mind, stroking her until she murmured profanities under her breath. 

 

She is blissful for another reason too, something different entirely. 

 

She had doubts before. For if her kind and honourable brother could slip into another skin to kill and maim she supposed he could slip into another one to fuck his sister. She was just a body, after all, and one who came to him eagerly at that. Men had needs, and she was a means to an end. But she’d seen the desire hidden behind his reluctance. She’d trapped him beyond duty, she knew it.

 

Brienne appears at Sansa’s side with a weary brow and hair full of snow.

 

“My lady, I looked for you before dinner,” Brienne says, clutching oathkeeper tightly at her side, “I was worried when Lady Karstark said you abandoned your knitting in a rush.”

 

“Embroidery,” Sansa corrects her, squaring her shoulders and attempting to erase the giddiness from her manner.

 

“I shouldn’t have left you.”

 

“It’s quite alright. You had something you needed to take care of,” Sansa says, turning to her and smiling, though she cannot quite meet Brienne’s eye. “As did I. Now, let’s enjoy Lord Manderly’s farewell feast.”

 

Brienne looks as though she wants to say something, but Sansa doesn’t want to be questioned about how or where she’d spent that lost hour of the evening any further. Instead, she takes her seat at the head of the table beside her husband. 

 

An hour has passed and Sansa is well into her cups when she leans over and kisses Jon on the cheek. 

 

It’s still quite a wonder that she’s able to do so, and for the crowds to cheer or smile rather than be repulsed. Though the Targaryens were above the laws of men and gods, Starks were not and she had only wolfsblood. It still felt a little illicit to take him inside her. She would never admit it, but she liked the depravity of it. She came harder when she thought of him as her brother.

 

Under the table, her hand grasps his inner thigh.

 

“I’ve been thinking about what I want you to do to me,” she whispers.

 

She feels his jaw tense beneath her lips and delights in this small power she has over him. 

 

“And what’s that?” he murmurs back. 

 

“I want you to bend me over your desk and pull up my skirts --”

 

He pulls back to look at her and his jaw clenches, “you couldn’t have expressed this thought an hour ago?” 

 

She smirks, “perhaps I delight in torturing you.”

 

She moves her hand further up his leg and it gives her goosebumps when she finds him hard beneath her touch. Here, in the Great Hall, in front of half of his bannerman and Baelish to boot.

 

“An unwise decision, seeing as I’ll have you at my mercy after dinner,” he murmurs.

 

There is a flash of violent lust in his eyes that would scare her if it was anyone else. Instead she becomes aware of the heat between her own legs as she rubs the palm of her hand against him through his breeches.

 

“You’re always merciful, though,” she says, biting down hard on her lip. 

 

He looks down and laughs softly, and before she can say anything else, Lord Manderly takes his attention. Though Jon is attentive to the Lord who is soon to deploy to Eastwatch on his orders, Sansa’s eyes focus on the way Jon’s fingers tap against the wood table. She wonders how much her husband’s politeness pains him. She lets her fingers mimic the way Jon’s drum on the table. His back straightens against his chair, and she smiles.

 

Lord Manderly evidently thinks her smile is directed towards him, and he repays it in kind, “and what does our fair Queen think?”

 

Sansa’s body tenses and she struggles for words that do not come. When Jon whips his head around to her, his smirk does nothing to help. Sansa looks down at her plate, her food half-finished. “I’m so sorry, my Lord. I’m not feeling well, I’m going to go to my chambers.”

 

“Do you need me to come with you?” Jon asks, the concern in his voice surely feigned for the heat in his eyes makes her cheeks flush. He knows what he has done to her as much as she has done to him.

 

“I’ll send for a maester,” Lord Manderly says, gesturing to one of his men at the lower tables.

 

“No, no,” Sansa assures them, “I think I just need to lie down.”

 

As she leaves she hears Jon make excuses for her, and though she’d half-expected he’d follow her she is alone when she reaches the Lord’s chambers. No matter, he would be there soon enough. She’ll find a way to quell her disappointment herself. 

 

She sits on his bed and begins to unlace her dress, and rids herself of all of her clothes except the corset she’d need Jon’s help to unlace. 

 

Not a day has passed since the last time she’d had him, but still she misses the way his hands felt running down her legs and up her back. She misses the way he felt on top of her, and the way his soft caresses always turned into selfish desire. 

 

She lies on their bed and remembers the desperate, low sound he makes as he finally gives in and pushes inside her. His lips sucking on a nipple, teeth on her neck, trails of kisses between her breasts. She tries to imitate the feeling, one hand runs up her stomach and loosens a breast from her corset, while the other reaches between her legs. She relaxes. 

 

She doesn’t hear the door, but all of a sudden she sees him out of the corner of her eye. She jumps and pulls her hands away. She’d known he would come for her, and the thought of him catching her with wet fingers had thrilled her, but his looming presence in the doorway makes her feel like a skittish maid.

 

“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”

 

He walks over to her, sits on the edge of the bed and stares into her eyes, smiling at her. His smiles are so rare and genuine that they always send jolts of electricity through her body. She gives him a pleading look. She’s mortified. “You didn’t leave Lord Manderly for me, did you? He seemed quite interested in talking to you about his sums.”

 

Jon raises an eyebrow, “troop movements.”

 

“I do hope you weren’t rude.”

 

“Everyone is very concerned for their Queen, it’s my husbandly duty to tend to her,” Jon replies, his eyes lingering on her breasts. She finds she likes feeling like an object of desire now, something she never thought she’d want again. 

 

“Would you like to help me out of my corset?” she asks, sitting up and turning her back to him.

 

He obliges. Over the past few days he’s mastered the mechanics of such contraptions and his fingers are practiced as they work to unlace her of her corset. Once she is free, she lays back down. She realizes, with a start, that this is the first time he’s seen all of her. Any urge she has to cover herself in furs is gone when she sees the hunger in his eyes. 

 

He doesn’t say anything, just takes her hand in his and brings it up to his mouth and sucks on her fingers. She relaxes slightly as she feels his tongue on her skin. When he finally pulls her fingers out of his mouth, he kisses her forehead and puts her hand back between her legs. “I’ll just watch.”

 

She can’t decide if she’s mortified or enthralled - perhaps both. 

 

She pauses, but the way he looks at her with affection such affection makes her desperate for friction. “Whatever pleases my king,” she says, not expecting the words to have more of an affect on her than they do on him. Her legs fall back open, and she plays with her clit for him, forgetting any apprehension. 

 

He seems to be pleased with this diversion, but she still aches for his hands. She grabs his wrist and pulls him to her.

 

“You’re so cold,” she sighs. But it’s nice, she’s warm, hot with desire and he cools her down.

 

He takes one of her breasts in his other hand and brushes her nipple with his thumb. She shivers.

 

“I wanted this all day,” she says, unable to do much else at this point but lie back and simply  _ feel _ . 

 

His fingers enter her easily, she’s wet and ready to take them. 

 

“I can tell,” he says in a low voice. 

 

She laughs. 

 

Its nice to get to be obvious after spending these past days in bed trying to pretend. There’s something about loving and being loved in return that lifts the burdens from her shoulders. She feels his love even if she doesn’t hear the words. 

 

His fingers are bigger than hers, and longer. They feel good as they fill her. They are rough with callouses, creating a pleasant friction against her soft walls. 

 

He lays beside her and kisses her. His thumb rubs her clit in soft circles. His mouth is on her neck. He’s hard and soft, rough and gentle. She squirms beneath his touch.

 

“Do you still --” he starts.

 

“Yes,” she says in the most pathetic of voices, eager as she knows exactly what he’s asking.

 

He nods and moves between her legs. She braces herself, hitching her breath. He lowers his head and sucks on her, strokes her with his tongue, and she wonders why she’d ever stopped him from performing such an act.

 

When he looks up at her from between her thighs, beautiful and wild, she can feel her heart flutter. She’s let herself fall before and promised herself that never again would she be such a fool. But then he smiles and reaches for her hand. Their fingers intertwine and he rubs his thumb against the back of her hand. She decides this is worth any heartache, and she lets go. 

 

Her thighs tighten around his head as his tongue moves up and down in a way that is at once sinful and miraculous to her, over and over again. Her free hand clutches at the furs and she almost asks him to stop, because it’s just  _ too much _ \--

 

But then it comes. Warmth cascades through her body and her muscles relax as she sinks into the matress. He kisses her. His lips are wet with the taste of her and though there was a time her delicate sensibilities would have been put off by it, she finds herself licking his lips, eager for more. 

 

Afterwards, he lies beside her looking uncharacteristically smug. 

 

She won’t have it.

 

“You’re tired?” she asks him with a smile. 

 

“No. Don’t you need a break?”

 

“No. Do  _ you _ ?”

 

He laughs. “Okay then.”

 

She watches as he pulls of his shirt. She makes no moves to help him with his breeches, instead she enjoys the sight of his muscled shoulders. She likes the sight of him naked before her, but she wants his body on hers more that she wants to admire the curvature of his chest.

 

“Come here,” she says, and he obliges.

 

Jon is nothing if not a giving lover, and his mouth moves to her breasts once more. He sucks on a nipple, softly until the suction builds and she moans.

 

He stops immediately, “did I hurt you?” 

 

“No, it’s just…”

 

“It’s just…?”

 

“I want your seed,” she responds a little too desperately. She corrects herself and averts her eyes. “For the babe.”

 

“Oh of course,” Jon says, and he guides himself into her. He groans into her hair, finally getting some relief from the torture he’d endured during dinner. He is no longer gentle, but she is wet and eager for the quick rhythm of his thrusts. 

 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, my Queen?” he asks, almost sarcastically, but not quite. When they are abed he is always eager to please.

 

She pauses, considering it. 

 

She rolls over and pushes him onto his back, resting her hands on his chest to steady herself as she straddles him. 

 

He leans up in to kiss her and she lets him. She’s still and focuses on his lips, putting all her energy into sucking on his bottom lip, biting it. His hands move to her hips and he urges her to go faster.

 

“Are you regretting being so nice now?” she asks in a soft voice which is anything but innocent.

 

He groans. 

 

She laughs as she pushes him back down onto his back, resisting his guidance and opting to torture him instead. She barely moves, delighting in the agony of anticipation, the reward of the gentlest friction.

She remains capable of this for a few minutes, feeling victorious at the arduous look on his face as he stares up at her breasts. But these slow movements have her aching for release once again.

 

“Jon?” she says, her voice now weak.

 

“Mhmmmmm?”

 

“I don’t want you to be nice anymore.”

 

So he’s not. He flips her onto her stomach and takes her from behind, just like she’d asked him to do at dinner. It’s better than she’d imagined. It’s rough in a way that hits the spot after his light touch. She’s almost there, and it doesn’t take much before she tightens around him and moans into the bed. 

 

He doesn’t stop, his pace only gets faster, giving her no time to catch her breath. When he comes inside her, his breath as ragged as hers.

 

Afterwards, pulls her onto her side and holds her against him. Neither of them speak, and he doesn’t move except to pull furs around them. Exhausted, she falls into a dreamy sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to theeaglegirl. I had abandoned it, but she's writing me what I want so I gotta reciprocate, you know? 
> 
> This is the final chapter, but there will be an epilogue where Jon returns from war ;)))) I have a very rough draft of it.
> 
> This is set like 6ish weeks after the previous chapter.
> 
> Thanks for picking this up again after such a long hiatus. Hope you like it! xoxo, Lizzie

Jon had always excelled in sums under Maester Luwin’s tutelage, and even though his work as Lord Commander and now King in the North had required a sword more often than a ledger, he was still infinitely better at understanding a spreadsheet than Sansa. He was the commander of their armies, but he was leaving her to rule, and so they needed to install a trusted steward. One who could explain what needed to be done, and handle any calculations. Sansa knew how important it was. She was to be the face of the North, and if he fell she would have to pick up the banner and manage without him.

But Sansa turns to their new steward, and politely says, “that will be all.”

He gives her a look. They’d discussed this in bed this morning, she knew that they needed to go over it together. She had agreed it was essential to the management of their kingdom.

But now she sighs. “I don’t want to look at ledgers. Not now. Aren’t there better things to do on your last day here?”

“What’s more important than keeping the people fed?”

“I can look after that when you’re gone. I’m very competent. But the business of creating an heir… well, I need you here for that.”

It brings a smile to his lips, though it shouldn’t. “I can’t spend my last hours abed. We have responsibilities.”

“Not abed. Here…” she stands up and walks over to him, sitting in his lap. He brushes a loose strand of hair out of her eye. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

It was hard to argue with that.

He kisses her, and she must know she’s won for he can feel her smile against his lips. Their kiss doesn’t last long, it can’t last long. He’s to leave before noon to ride North.

Sansa stands up and turns around. “Will you help me?”

He stands and runs his hands through her soft hair before pushing it over one shoulder. She had the prettiest neck, long and thin. He brushed his lips against her smooth skin. She smelled good too. He would miss the way she smelled. Clean, like lavender soap and scented lemon oil, and like sex, too. At the wall people just smelled bad. Sansa leaned her head back onto his shoulder, so they were intertwined like two swans. His hands encircle her waist and he draws her closer.

He bites her neck, and she laughs. He can feel the vibrations against his lips. It would be so easy to tell her now. He had to, didn’t he? Could he leave without letting her know that he loved her? That she’d brought him back from the dead, that without her there would be no world to save? Maybe he wouldn’t come back. And then she’d never know.

But just because her body wanted him didn’t mean she was ready to hear the words, and it certainly didn’t mean she felt the same way. The words were on his lips, he could unburden himself. But he didn’t think he could handle rejection before he left. He’d rather live a lie, if that’s all the past six weeks had been. He caresses Sansa’s cheek with his burned hand. He brings her lips to his and swallows down any ill advised love confessions.

They kiss, and this time he lingers on it. If this was the last time he was to hold her he would make the best of it. Sansa breaks away first.

“I thought you were in a rush,” she teases.

“Are  _you_?”

“Yes. I need to keep the whole North fed, don’t I? Play with my little abacus. Remember to carry the ones.”

Jon grins. “Alright then, hitch your skirts up.”

“Oh  no. You’ll want a last look, won’t you? It’s my duty, for the good of the North.” She says it with a smile in her voice, and he can’t help but smile too. Her smiles were contagious, always making him feel at ease, unburdening him, like it was just the two of them, here and now. He could live in these moments forever. This is what he was fighting for. He could see it stretched out before his eyes, a lifetime of her smiles. Not just stolen moments. A future, and a child or five.

He helps her with the laces of her corsets.

“Your duty?” he questions. There’s no need to hide behind pretence anymore. Almost two moons had passed since they’d said their vows under the Heart Tree. Can she not admit that she just likes it, likes his hands, likes him, likes to be fucked?

“Morale. I can’t send off a sullen king, can I? The safety of the North is at stake,” she says, and then she laughs once more, all but admitting the charade. He’ll let her keep her lies.

Unbound, Sansa turns around. Her dress seems to fall easily to the ground. As though she’d planned this. She’s not wearing any small clothes, she must be cold. Her nipples are hard. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s seen her, he’s still mesmerized. If only she knew the power she had between her legs… gods, he almost wanted to scoop her up and steal her away to Essos, the Others be damned.

She pushes him back down into the chair.

Sansa is naked except for silk stockings with little direwolves sewn into them. He clutches her thigh and brushes his thumb against the embroidery. He smiles at the intricacy of her needlework. He must look awful stupid when he looks up at her grinning, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“One last look. To commit me to memory,” as if he could forget, “so you can…”

“So I can…?”

She’s naked, but it is this that makes her blush. “You know.”

“What would you have me do, my lady?” He refuses to help her. He is dirty minded and likes to toy with her. He wants her to spell it out. He wants to know all her filthy thoughts. 

“Think of me… before you fall asleep… or… when you’re lonely…”

He lets his eyes linger on her cunt, and wets his lips. “Believe me, I’ll be thinking of little else.”

That’s all there was — oblivion, or her. It had been so much easier before she’d rode back into his life on that dying horse. He could’ve left everything behind, left everyone to fend for themselves. He was angry and bitter and tired and alone. But it was different now. Harder. She hadn’t gotten her last moonblood. It could be nothing, it was too soon to tell. But maybe the woman before him carried his child. Maybe they could have everything.

Jon opens his arms. “Come here.”  _Where you belong, where I can protect you._  

And she does. She sits in his lap and leans his head onto his shoulder. When they were this close, when he closed his eyes and all he could hear was their breathing, when their hearts seemed to beat as one, he understood why men fought wars for women, why they broke oaths, why they wrote songs. That love was the death of duty.

She must have been thinking the same thing, for when she looked up at him there were tears in her eyes.

“Jon?”

“Hmmm?”

“We love each other, don’t we?”

He was struck by the way she asked it, with probing eyes and baited breath. It is not possible for him to soften any more for her, but he does.

“Aye. We do.”

“Then you have to come back.”

“I’ll try.”

“You have to. It can’t be over yet.”

He has no words for her. It would be dishonourable to make a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He would die for her, but she’s asking him to live instead, and that was an infinitely harder task.

So instead he picks her up and sits her on his desk. He drops to his knees.

If this is the last time he’ll get a taste of her, he has to make it count. He sucks on her hard and makes circles with his tongue. He can feel her brace herself against his desk. She’s whimpering his name, but then her hands are in his hair, pulling him up. He looks up at her.

“Together. There’s not enough time.”

Jon smiles and thinks back to before they’d wed, before he’d tasted her, when all he’d had was his hand and the fantasies of her that played on loop in his head. They’d nearly driven him to madness.

“I dreamt of having you here.”

Sansa's eyes sparkle. “So did I.”

“Of pushing everything off my desk and taking you.”

“Do it,” she whispers.

And so he does. There is not much on his desk, and so it’s anticlimactic when the ledger and abacus fall to the ground. But they laugh, and he’ll remember the way she looks at him more than he’ll remember the curve of her thighs or how her breasts felt in his mouth. 

She turns around and he pushes her down into the desk by the back of the neck. He looks down at her and commits this to memory too. Her ass, her spread legs, her cunt. When he enters her she is warm and wet and tight. He takes her from behind and they fuck like animals, like the wolves they are. It’s different this time. It’s not gentle or slow. But he must leave, they’re out of time.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Dead.

 

Tormund had been sympathetic as he broke the news in the Great Hall when he’d returned from the war, but the shock of it had still threw her into labour. It was a difficult birth, and after she fell into a long sleep. She dreamt of him and the future they’d almost had.

 

Maester Wolken had smiled with relief when she'd finally came to. "I thought we lost you, My Lady."

 

The maester presented her with her son, swaddled in the direwolf blanket she'd made for him as she sat by the fire waiting for Jon to return. He was beautiful. He had her Tully blue eyes, but it was Jon he looked like. Only two days old and their son had a full head of black hair. Her father’s hair, Arya’s hair.

 

It was up to her to name him. It took a long time for her to decide and so the baby remained nameless for weeks. 

 

She would not be parted from her son, he slept in Sansa’s bed, the two of them nose to nose, she changed him, she bathed him, he drank from her breast. The wet nurse and master advised against it, but the would not be parted from her baby boy.

 

She had much to do, but she neglected everything but the care of her son. He was all that mattered now. She was a grieving widow and a new mother, so nobody expected much of her. Lord Manderly and Ser Davos saw to the running of the kingdom and Sansa hid away from the world.

 

Tormund came to see her in her solar a fortnight after the baby's birth, to talk to her before he headed back north. 

 

"Did you want to know anything about it?" he asked. He'd been there when it had happened, or else was the only one who had heard the tale from the horse's mouth at Winterfell. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t like to think about it.

 

"No, it's alright,” Sansa said.

 

Some things were better left unsaid. She knew he was gone, but she couldn't stand to imagine it. She wanted to remember him as he had been that last day. Kissing her, holding her, loving her. She thanked the gods for the time they'd had. Just a moment, really. Enough to give her their son. She tried to tell herself it was enough, but in truth she wasn't ready for their song to be over.

 

She loved him. Truly. And she had always been selfish. There would never be enough time.

 

Tormund nodded and looked down at the baby. "He looks just like Jon Snow."

 

Sansa didn't know what to say, so she just smiled.

 

"The Free folk don't name their babies until the first year, either," Tormund grunted approvingly. “In case something happens.”

 

"I'm sorry, My Lord, but I need to nurse. Could I have some privacy?"

 

Tormund, the 1000th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, perked up at the use of his title and left her alone. Sansa wanted to cry, but she was still too numb. She had meant to give her son a name — she ought to name him Jon, after his father. He could be King Jon, second of his name. He would be as good a king as his father, the man he'd never know. The man who had died a martyr, who gave everything he had to the North.

 

But she didn't think she could bear to say his name every day, to be reminded of what she'd lost.

 

Jon should have had a say in the name. She didn't know now why they'd never discussed it. He had told her that he might never return. She should have been sensible. She could be now. The people would want to know what to call their new King, and she still had a duty to them.

 

In the end, she names him Robb and the North rejoices in the second coming of the young wolf.

 

* * *

 

Five months later, Sansa sat with Robb beneath the Heart Tree. The pair of them came here everyday. He never cried in the Godswood. He belonged to the Old Gods, and so did she. She didn't feel alone here, it was as if the spirits of her ancestors and the family she’d lost were still alive in these trees. She was connected to all of them, they were all here, keeping an eye on her. They always had been. It had been folly to run from who she was, but she knew better now.

 

It was warm out, and each day it got warmer, but Sansa didn't believe winter could wane so easily. It was a false spring. The birds didn't seem to realize, though. Above them, on the white branch of the Weirwood were two crows and a nest of eggs. The hatchlings were sure to die when the winter winds returned once more.

 

The Godswood was a peaceful place to escape to. It was just her and her son. Nobody to try to make her more comfortable, nobody to worry after her, nobody to put at ease. Just listening to the birds chirping and the gentle spring breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees, Sansa closed her eyes and drifted off.

 

When she woke, Robb was gone. Standing in front of her was a white direwolf. For a split second she wondered if it was a dream, for Ghost had perished with Jon when the wall fell. But then Ghost was licking Sansa's face.

 

When the direwolf pulled away, he looked behind her. Sansa followed his gaze and her heart caught in her chest. Jon was smiling down at Robb, cradled in his arms.

 

It couldn't be real. She was still drowsy and disoriented. The Old Gods must be playing tricks on her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, but he was still there.

 

"Jon?"

 

He looked over at her at last. "I didn't want to wake you," he said.

 

Sansa got to her feet and ran to him. She wrapped her arms around the pair of them and breathed easy for the first time in months. He was shorter than she remembered, but he still felt the same in her arms. She buried her face in his neck and breathed him in. "Next time you rise from the dead be sure to wake me,” she said when she pulled away. 

 

"I got distracted by him."

 

Sansa understood completely. "He's perfect, isn't he?"

 

Jon nodded. He was smiling wider than she’d ever seen him smile. His face had new scars, and new lines of worry, but somehow he looked younger.

 

“Brienne told me you named him Robb."

 

“I did.”

 

“It suits him. He looks like a Robb," Jon said, looking down fondly at his son.

 

That was preposterous. He was very nearly a clone of his father, save for his blue eyes. But Sansa didn't question it. She felt too giddy. She couldn’t stop smiling. She leaned over and kissed him again. 

 

"Do you want to go back to the castle?" Jon asked.

 

Sansa shook her head. If they went back to the castle Jon's subjects would all demand his attention. She wanted to have him all to herself for awhile longer.

 

"Can we stay here for awhile? You can tell me how you got home."

 

"It's really not that great of a story. I just survived is all. I'm more interested in him. And... a nap."

 

"A nap?" Sansa asked with a laugh.

 

"I'm really tired!''

 

"Too tired to…" Sansa raised an eyebrow.

 

"No, no, not too tired for that," his eyes sparkled.

 

"Good." Sansa took after her cloak and took Robb from Jon’s arms and laid him on it.

 

"Here?" Jon asked, his amused surprise obvious in his voice. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

 

Sansei blushed. “We can talk after! It shouldn't take too long... unless... you don't want to?"

 

“Oh... no... I want to... don’t you want to wait for a bed?"

 

She felt thoroughly shamed, but when she looked back, he was unbuttoning his doublet with a mischievous glint in his eye. He was teasing her. 

 

"You want it bad," he said.

 

Her mouth gaped open. He had never talked to her like this. Perhaps he'd hit his head on this heroic escape from death.

 

"It's a wife's duty to provide her husband with comfort,” she spat out. Sansa had a response for everything, but she’d never prepared for such accusations from her own husband.

 

He was grinning at her like an idiot. He was an idiot. Her idiot.

 

“Ahhh, duty," Jon said, nuzzling her nose with his. He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, this time slower. It had been so very long since she’d been kissed. She sighed into his mouth and clutched him closer to her. Perhaps she would keep him like that forever, and he could never leave her again.

 

They do end up waiting for a bed. Jon had been injured, and his back was killing him from the hard ride. Sansa fulfilled the promise she’d made to be a kind and true wife, and so she did all the work and let him lie back on the feather bed. He deserved it, she thought. For all his work for the realm. And just as importantly, she liked to be on top.

 

Only when she’s finally had her way with him, and he’s playing with her hair, does she admit the truth: “You know, sometimes duty is rather enjoyable.”

 

Jon laughed softly, and fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

Even though the winter was much shorter than anyone had anticipated, things were not easy. The war took from everyone, the land was ravaged and their people often desperate. The Spring may have been real but there was much to rebuild and scarcely any gold to do it. But despite everything standing in their way, they did live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, and for all of your kudos and comments! I hope you enjoyed the ending~ 
> 
> And thanks to Mere/goodqueenalys/whatever her a03 name is for convincing me not to kill Jon off for shock value. I adore you <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand... here's some fluffy smut for Valentine's Day!

When Jon had been away baby Robb always slept in her bed, the two of them nose to nose. The nurse she’d hired from Wintertown didn’t approve, but Sansa couldn’t bare to be parted from him. He was the last thing she had left in this world worth holding onto. What if he stopped breathing, or got sick? Sansa would be the first to know.

 

But now that Jon had returned, on many nights the baby had to be minded by the nurse. That nurse of course was monitored by at least three other maids who periodically checked on her son. Sansa had heard all sorts of wicked stories about how nannies really treated their charges… and she had seen some things in her time. Nothing would happen to their boy.

 

Not for the first time Sansa found herself wondering how common women and wildlings were able to make love when they had a new child. Most of them lived in tents or in one room house. Did a man take his rights in front of his family? That seemed depraved. Did they merely go without? That seemed unthinkable.

 

“Usually once everyone falls asleep you can slip into someone’s furs,” Jon told her when she asked as they tucked Robb into his bassinet in the nursery. “Just keep fairly quiet and nobody will care.”

 

Sansa was aghast. “Jon… have you…?”

 

Her husband averted his eyes. She wondered what woman he had forsaken her for while he was at war. _This is just how life is_ , she told herself, though she’d thought somehow that they were different. Not that they were a love match, but Jon had seemed satisfied by her affections.

 

“Who was she?” Sansa can’t help but ask, her voice low.

 

Men strayed from the marriage bed, that was true. And Jon had been trying to save all of humanity. Surely she could forgive him. He was a thoughtful and thorough lover, a doting father and a kind husband. She had been used and abused, and after everything Jon Snow was more than she’d ever dared hope.

 

“I thought I’d told you the tale.”

 

“No.”

 

“A wildling, her name was Ygritte. When I was with the Night’s Watch —”

 

Sansa leaned over Robb’s bassinet and cut him off with a kiss. “That’s right, I’d forgotten,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. Daenerys Targaryen had been awfully beautiful and she’d been there at the end. To have been second place in Jon’s heart to the silver queen would have made Sansa feel utterly worthless. But Ygritte posed no threat to Sansa, how ever much the spearwife had meant to Sansa’s husband, she was long dead.

 

Jon’s hands moved to Sansa’s cheeks and held her to him. He was still hungry for everything — for good food from Lord Manderly’s hearty provisions and for wine the Arbour had sent up in lieu of sending soldiers to die alongside him — but most of all for her embrace. His lips felt like heaven against hers. His kisses were all the sweeter for all the time Sansa had spent thinking him lost to her forever. They had gotten through the worst, the two of them could make it through anything. She could kiss Jon like this forever, and fate had decided to be kind enough to let her.

 

Beneath them Robb squawked.

 

Jon cruelly pulled his lips away and stared at her with concerned eyes. With the baby he was helpless and petrified. “What do we do?” he asked.

 

“We can just leave him. It’s fine. Babies make noises,” Sansa reassured him. “He just gets excited when his father around. We should let him sleep.”

 

Jon’s love for their son warmed Sansa’s heart. He was both in awe of little Robb and completely terrified of breaking him. He’d told Sansa he was eager for the baby to grow up so he could begin training him in the yard and taking him out riding. Sansa couldn’t imagine the chubby little baby between them beheading traitors or patrolling the wolfswood on horseback, but she suppoused all children grew up.

 

 _And we can have more babies,_ Sansa thought happily.

 

Baby making must have been all over her face, for Jon’s eyes darkened. “Will my lady be joining me in the Lord’s chambers tonight?”

 

It was barely a question. Not a single a night had passed where she’d managed to part with him. Often they were so tired from Robb and the excitement around the castle that they just held each other. It wasn’t as though they’d lost the spark, but before he’d left they’d had so little time. Fucking was more than just scratching an itch, it was a way of holding onto him. And now they had all the time in the world.

 

“Perhaps,” Sansa said, making her way to the door. She paused as though considering an onerous task. “It’s awfully cold today, I think I might enjoy my the heat of the lady’s chambers.” Hot water flowed from the hot springs through the walls to heat her mother’s old room. Her mother had been a southron bride and not used to the cold of the harsh land she’d come to call home. In truth, Sansa was not as sensitive as her lady mother.  However much she’d once wanted to be a southron queen, deep down she was of the North.

 

“I can keep you warm,” Jon said from behind her.

 

Sometimes Jon complained that she had cold feet, but he never kicked them away when she was stealing his body heat. Living at the wall for all those years, curled up with wildling lovers (and probably that Sam Tarly fellow judging from the way Sam gazed so lovingly at Jon), Jon Snow was used to things much colder than Sansa Stark’s feet.

 

“That’s true,” Sansa replied as she opened the door and made her way into the hallway. “You _are_ very good at that. It must be all that dragon blood.”

 

Behind her she could hear an irritated grunt and Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. Jon did not like being reminded he was a Targaryen, but that same dragon blood was what allowed him to do what he was about to while remaining within the realms of propriety, so neither of them could really complain.

 

Once in the hall, Jon caught up to her and they walked beside each other.

 

“I think I shall visit you tonight,” Sansa said, as though she’d given it much consideration. It was a given, really. Besides that, a burning heat had been building in her all day. “I do love when you take care of me…” she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, still unable to exactly spell out what she wanted. Jon was sometimes able to say the most depraved things in the heat of it, but even abed Sansa Stark was a lady.

 

Jon licked his lips and her stomach tightened. “I like it too.”

 

How very much Jon liked it was half of the appeal. Between her legs he was so hungry and desperate, as though he was going to _devour_ her. Once she’d thought no man would marry her for love, but even though Jon had married her for the good of their budding kingdom, Sansa swore that no man performed so diligently unless he was firmly in love.

 

Sansa had once asked Jon what it was called. Surely such a divine act must have a name.” I’ve… heard it called the Lord’s kiss?” Jon spit out, grimacing as he said it. But Jon was no lord, he was a king, and Sansa was sure his kiss was better than a mere lord.

 

They reached the lord’s chambers and walked in silently. It would not do to have the household talking about them, not now that they were parents. She had to comport herself with dignity, even as she ached for him to slam her against the wall and take her right there.

 

Jon caught her hand and pulled her close. Against his chest she breathed in the scent of him. He was always so sweaty and covered in mud, and even though he made an effort to clean himself before bed, Sansa didn’t mind. A tiny part of her deep down even liked the sight of him covered in blood. But even washed and shaved, he still had a particular scent to him. That _Jon_ smell, smoky and musky and not at all like the perfumed prince of her youth.

 

“What else would you like me to do to you, my queen?” Jon whispered into her hair. “After I’ve had my fill.”

 

Sansa blushed. She had a child now, she shouldn’t be so fragile, but Jon had been gone so long and she had grown shy in his absence. She could not bare for anyone to know just how wanton she was, even the only man who had experienced it first hand.

 

“Perhaps we could try to conceive again…” Sansa said, “the King in the North needs more than one heir.”

 

“Mmmhmmm” Jon murmured against her neck, kissing her divinely. She sighed at his touch. They’d been through this half a dozen times since he’d returned. Sansa had nearly a year to put up walls but every time they coupled Jon tore them down.

 

“I must remind you, my King, that it is our duty to procreate,” Sansa said, this time more firmly. “So I suppoused I’ll have to let you have your way with me…”

 

Jon’s hands drifted down and encircled Sansa’s waist. He was so gentle with her, guiding her slowly to the bed before pushing her back onto it and falling to his knees. He had become well acquainted with the mechanics of her petticoats and smallclothes, and it was with ease that he pushed up her skirts and rid her of the many layers of her winter dress.

 

When Jon’s tongue circled her clit she could no longer pretend that their lovemaking was so clinical. Jon’s hands pushed her legs apart and his tongue hit her even deeper and he revealed exactly how easy she was.

 

Before long, she was crying out his name. But her peak did not stop him. Perhaps she had played it too coy. She was so fragile after she came, but Jon’s tongue did not abate. Sansa squeezed her legs around his head and grabbed onto his hair. She didn’t want him to stop, even as her body begged for mercy. When she did come again it almost hurt. She lay there, reduced to an absolute mess, desperate to catch her breath.

 

Jon began to undress before her and she watched with eager eyes. His body bore fresh injuries, but she couldn’t make all of them out in the candlelight. She wanted to commit every inch of his body to memory. She wanted to know all of him.

 

When he came back to bed, he laid on top of her and kissed her harder than he had so far. She was so far gone she found the taste of herself on his lips intoxicating. Sansa pulled away first and looked him in the eye. She had abandoned all pretext.

 

“I changed my mind, I think I’ll be taking _you_ ,” she said, and rolled him onto his back. They hadn’t done it like this since he’d gotten back. He’d always been on top, or he’d taken her from behind, or on one particularly cold morning he’d slipped inside her while they cuddled side by side.

 

“My lucky day.”

 

Jon laid back against the headboard and watched her. Sansa was wet and eager when she sunk down onto him. She set the pace, and moved unbearably slowly to make up for his cruel tongue. She loved to make him sweat.

 

But Jon seemed content enough. His arms slipped behind Sansa and began to unlace her corset. He was not effected enough, so Sansa tightened herself around him. That illicited the groan she’d wanted, and at the same time her corset came undone and her breasts spilled out over her dress. They were heavy from pregnancy and Sansa had been insecure about her body, but the way he looked up at her made her glad she hadn’t hidden under the furs.

 

——————

 

“You know, you haven’t told me about how you got any of these new scars,” Sansa said afterwards when they were curled up together. Jon had been back for more than a month, but Sansa knew very little about what he’d been up to beyond the wall while she had been at home. He’d come back bruised and broken, and surely whatever he’d done was more interesting than tending to Robb, but all he wanted to discuss was her and their son.

 

“You didn’t ask,” Jon shrugged.

 

“I’m asking now.”

 

“Well, which one do you want to know about?”

 

Sansa used the opportunity to take in her husband’s body. It was true that he was shorter than her, and many ladies didn’t like that, but for the life of her Sansa couldn’t remember seeing a more beautiful man. Joffrey had been tall and pretty, but his smiles soon turned cruel and looking at him had been painful. Jon was hard and chiselled. Sansa ran her hand along his abdomen, delighting in how well formed he was. She made certain to steer clear of the scars in the centre of his chest. She already knew that story, and neither of them liked thinking about how Jon’s men had turned on him. Eventually her finger settled on a scar nearing his pelvic bone, mostly healed.

 

“How did you get this?”

 

“You, my lady.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Before I left, in my study, you got carried away.”

 

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to,” it looked like it was painful.

 

“Don’t worry, Sansa. I can take a hit.”

 

Sansa leaned down to kiss his scar, her lips brushing against his soft public hair. When she cuddled back into the crook of his arm, Jon’s face was taken over by an unusually large smile.

 

“How’d you really get it?” Sansa asked with a sigh.

 

“A white walker’s spear,” Jon said erupting into laughter.

 

She rolled her eyes but in truth she didn’t mind being teased. Not if it meant she got to see him smile.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just remade a tumblr for jonsa-ing, follow me at bravegentlestrong.tumblr.com!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] forbidden fruit's in season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697036) by [BabelGhoti (TheHandmadeTale)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHandmadeTale/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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